Repercussions of Reclusiveness
by Miziggy
Summary: Logic couldn't imply that Holmes was being absurd because really, who would want to inflict themselves with unnecessary company? Holmes/Watson implied slash, angsty goodness. Nothing graphic, but rated M for a tiny line about cocaine in the beginning.


It was a rather nice day in London; the rain had subsided, a hazy sun had come out to shed light on dreary buildings, and Sherlock Holmes sat half-clad in a pile of blankets on the chaise lounge, smoking a pipe and injecting a seven-per-cent cocaine solution into his arm. It wasn't quite that Holmes was sulking, but more that he was acknowledging the futility of exposing himself to the outdoor elements. Sunlight would only emphasize the shadows that had crept from his eyes to his cheeks in a manner of days- the shortest time yet, in fact, that it had taken him to look so obviously drugged- and it would be sure to irritate his eyes, used to the indoor darkness as they were.

No, lamplight and candlelight were best for Holmes. Natural light implied windows and fresh air and places in which he would have to compose himself and look presentable, perhaps carry around a cane and pretend he was John Watson. Logic couldn't imply that Holmes was being absurd because really, who would want to inflict themselves with unnecessary company? Never mind that there had been no visits from Watson, no telegrams from potential clients. Well, interesting potential clients, anyways; the intelligence of crime had reached a depressing low and so, as he was forced to admit, had Holmes. Not that his logic was absurd, of course, merely that others more accustomed to the outside light- for example, Watson, should he choose to visit the apartment- might believe that they could not maintain a happy demeanor through the experience of darkness.

What, then (Holmes wanted to know), was the point of candlelit dinners or window curtains? Or the point of putting a chaise lounge in the darkest corner of the sitting room if it was not meant to be used as shelter from the elements? He was only putting them to their intended purpose, even if it was intended only by whoever had placed it there.

Who had placed it there? It couldn't have been Watson, who spent uneven but considerable amounts of time out-of-doors and had moved his chair to the window to read by, ignoring all sensibility and only lighting a lamp when the letters became too difficult to make out in half-light. Perhaps it had been the previous occupants, or Mrs. Hudson herself, who recognized the importance of dark seclusion. It may have been Holmes himself, but he did not try to remember small household details and so there was nothing in his memory that could tell him. He preferred to save his mental space for important details.

Clearly, Watson did not believe himself to be an important detail in Holmes' life. Why else would there exist a continual silence between the two of them? Not, of course, that Holmes had attempted to contact Watson, or expressed any desire to see Watson, even shunning him a few times out of pique, but Watson must have known what the proper thing was to do. It wasn't predictable for Watson to leave Holmes like this, and Holmes was sure he had pinned Watson down to all his individual particulars, so it became especially frustrating when Holmes was forced to consider that maybe there was something that had happened outside of his observation. It was too much for Holmes to suppose that he had profiled Watson incorrectly, so the only logical explanation would have been for Watson to have experienced or assumed something that convinced him that he was unnecessary.

It was an assessment completely incorrect in all its particulars, most especially because Watson, much as Holmes hated to admit it, had a certain way about his person that Holmes couldn't attribute to his attire- tasteful but a shade too conservative for Holmes' liking- or his bearing- military but not imposing, the set of the shoulders expressing pride but not self-absorption- or his friends- in this case, limited almost entirely to Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. There was something there, something beyond the kind eyes and gentle humor, or perhaps encompassing it, that drew Holmes inexplicably to Watson; a certain compassion that Holmes had assumed rashly, not because it had not happened before but because he had clearly placed more significance on the past events than they warranted, would have brought Watson to his door long before now.

Watson might have arrived in a fit of rage from any of Holmes' actions and his presence would have been-- well, what would it have been? Welcome? After all this time and this blatant shunning of common decency? There had to be a book on etiquette somewhere that instructed all older, attractive gentlemen with slightly younger, unreliable room-mates to attend to their room-mates after a certain length of time had passed between visits. Holmes wouldn't know, of course, not having read any more books on etiquette than those required by a proper schooling, but a rule such as that would not be inconceivable and would look perfectly reasonable next to other, similar customs Holmes knew existed. He was quite sure of it.

Holmes did want to read, though, so he got out of the chaise lounge and trailed blankets around furniture behind himself in search of a packet of matches with which he hoped to light a lamp. He couldn't imagine where he would have put the matches, having used the ones he had found in his trousers pocket to light the first few candles, before they had all burned out, but not having his trousers, and not being able to find his trousers, as the only light in the apartment came from the fireplace in the sitting room, and was hardly transportable into the dark bedroom. Eventually, though, he found them on the reading table next to Watson's window-facing chair, next to a handkerchief and a book that Holmes didn't care to examine the title of.

Holmes turned to return to his place on the chaise lounge, carrying the blankets in one hand and the matches in the other until he felt his bare foot press something paperlike- a letter, perhaps, though how it could have gotten into the apartment was yet another matter Holmes didn't want to consider at the moment. He picked up the letter- for it was a letter, or a sheet of paper inside an envelope- and continued picking his way through discarded clothes and books and assorted items until he reached the chaise lounge and was able to provide some illumination for the missive.

It began, _My dear friend,_ and ended, _Watson_, and in that moment Holmes would have given up his semi-darkness and comfortable disarray, perhaps even his old microscope, to have discovered the letter with its writer already in his room. The letter itself was short and to the point, asking to see Holmes the previous day for tea and perhaps a boxing match which he hoped Holmes might observe but not participate in. It explained in a postscript that Watson was staying at the house of an elderly gentleman who was paying him handsomely to ease his wife's decline, but that he did not expect to be there for longer than a week because the wife was old and her constitution and general health were not what they should be, but that he had an interesting story he would like to tell Holmes when he got the chance. Watson wrote that he doubted he would be able to leave the house very often but that he would be free for the aforementioned date, and would afterwards be unavailable until such time as the lady became well or died or the gentleman's money ran out, but that the former and latter were unlikely.

Holmes didn't bother to crumple the note, but dropped it disconsolately between the back of the chaise lounge and the wall behind him and pulled the blankets over his head to breathe trapped pipe smoke. The bottle of cocaine pressed into his elbow and he moved it away, preferring to indulge his resentment at the world in general with all mental faculties fully unleashed. The letter was dated a week ago, he saw, and he had fallen into his miserable apathy the day after Watson had not returned home, barely bothering to follow the progression of days and able to not do so as heavy drape curtains obscured all outside light and therefore the naturally observable passages of time.

Where was Watson now? Holmes considered this subject with a savant attention and eventually decided that, although the letter did not say who the gentleman was, it could only have been the newly established Mister Blewett and that Watson could hardly be constantly occupied and could probably use a visit. If anything, Holmes could have an opportunity to partially convey his disappointment at Watson's lackluster methods of communication, because really, a proper explanation was only decent.

Holmes reached for his trousers and attempted to decide on the most comfortable and informative route to the gentleman's house.


End file.
